


By the Nine!

by ShadowMeld



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer - Freeform, Angst, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nord, Size Kink, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowMeld/pseuds/ShadowMeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dead!Ondolemar discovers that he was very wrong about Talos.  Now he is in a place of proving, and unfortunately has to rely on a group of humans to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Response to a Skyrim kink meme prompt. http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/3288.html?thread=1916632#t1916632

Curse that Dragonborn to the darkest plane of Oblivion. Damn him and the lot of them. The ancient doors of the keep rattled as Markarth stood under siege. If that Talos-worshipping mongrel hadn’t sided with the rebels none of this would be happening. His magic burned from the well deep within him as the altmer’s golden eyes fixed on the shuddering dwemer metal. The screams of Nords were harsh on his fine Mer ears, but Ondolemar could pay no mind right now. It seemed a travesty that such a superiorly bred mer as himself would die in a wretched crag like this. He prayed to the Eight that they returned his body to the Summerset Isle, but before he went he swore to leave a swath of burned heretics before him. He was not going down without a fight. 

Already one of his guards had fallen, they’d run to defend the gates. The justicar had tried to talk them down, but they’d been determined. They were not as fine stock as himself, but he never enjoyed mer life being lost. Now only one of his guards were at his side and he knew that she too sensed the grim truth. Smoke hung heavy in the air, like the rank breath of one of the ancient dragons this savage land was cursed with. 

Even through the pain Ondolemar could savor his last scrap of victory against these savages, as his flame cloak burned the wretch who’d stabbed him alive. To be killed by man, shameful, but at least the human went first. Hopefully the Eight would look favorably upon him. 

The Justicar Ondolemar died in a storm of screams and fire. 

____________

Cold. 

That was what stirred the justicar at first. It was so damned cold. And as he felt the firm of ground beneath his back and the bite of cold and wet he thought in a grim moment that somehow he was still in Skyrim. It was not comforting. Only when the altmer opened his eyes, uncomfortably dragging himself to a sitting position did the reality of his situation truly sunk in. Wherever this was, it was no place that he knew. No, this was… elsewhere. 

He never thought he’d find a place more punishingly cold and miserable than Skyrim. The Divine’s ill sense of humor never seemed to disappoint, for this was place was far colder and it had the finely bred mer barely able to conceal a flinch at its bite. 

A prime Altmer like himself was made for the Summerset Isles, not a forsaken crag like Skyrim, and most certainly not for weather like this. But Ondolemar refused to give the weather the satisfaction, even the enchantments on his thalmor robes seemed completely dead. It was that more than anything that made him begin to truly consider that he was not in Tamriel any longer. The Dominion did not skimp on the attire of their emissaries, and to have them all fail at once… it could not have happened anywhere of this world. 

Divines but it was cold… Thalmor robes held far more enchantments than was apparent to those outside the Aldmeri, particularly ones for warmth, comfort, and finishes to make them weatherproof along with the amplification of the Altmer’s natural magic. But with their magic dead the finespun cloth was little more than a too thin dressing gown letting in the bitter wind, and growing increasingly dampened by flakes of melting snow. 

He couldn’t make sense of it, but wherever he was he would not let it be said that an officer of the Dominion just gawped at his circumstances and let himself freeze to death. So gathering his robe tighter to him, for what little it could insulate him from the cold, Ondolemar trudged slowly forward. 

The altmer could hardly make out anything as his golden eyes narrowed against the wind, but knew he had to find some sort of shelter. He could see somewhere in the distance twisted, monstrous trees perched atop a snowy slope. They didn’t look much more welcoming, but at the very least they may offer some shelter against the wind, which was whipping his justicar robes about like mad. 

Ondolemar was glad for the hood on his robes very much this day, for he was sure during the walk the wind would have frozen the tips of his finely pointed ears right off, much as it was trying to do with his nose. This wretched plane seemed to hate him, everything from his fine robes to lithe form, and chiseled mer features that the wind very much wanted to slice away. And the damned snow was making some sort of optical illusion. He swore he’d been walking for hours, but he didn’t seem any closer to those trees in the distance than he was before. Every time he crested a hill, thinking that he had nearly reached him, they proved to be over another peak. At the very least his magicka still seemed to be working, even if it seemed strangely dampened by this grim cold as well. 

Squinting against the cold as he stood at the crest of another hill, looking out onto the bleak landscape of mountains and snow he had to scoff, even miserably cold as he was. He bet those savage Nords would love it here, like their damned Sovngarde, they’d just lay around in the cold drinking foul mead and talking about their false god. 

And then, he suddenly saw something through the snow. A figure, and Ondolemar stood up a bit straighter, narrowing his eyes at the dark form that seemed to be making its way out of the trees and nearer to him. Thank the Eight, but it didn’t look like a wolf of troll, or any of the forsaken wildlife of Skyrim. Still, he kept his magic at the ready just in case. 

Still, he thought it only polite that he warn the other what they were dealing with, just in case they did want to start trouble. “You there! You have the privilege of encountering an officer of the Thalmor. By order of the Dominion I demand that you explain where in Oblivion this is!”

The man seemed to cross the distance between them in unnatural time. And when Ondolemar had a good look at him his shoulders went instantly stiff. “By the Eight…”

“Don’t you mean, ‘by the Nine?’”

Ondolemar would recognize that face anywhere after seeing its visage carved into countless numbers of blasphemous statues scattered across Skyrim’s forsaken lands. Tiber Septim. Talos. The false god. The sight of him in this awful plane made the altmer’s back lock with tension, his stern mouth moving immediately into a grimace of denial. 

This didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t. He didn’t believe it. “Tiber Septim, or Talos as Skyrim’s heathen people insist on calling him is not a Divine. The Dominion, the Aldmeri, acknowledge only the Eight true Divines. I don’t know what daedra’s blasphemous joke this it, but I do not find it amusing.”

“I assure you, Ondolemar, none of this is meant to be in jest. I suppose the only thing amusing here is your hearty refusal to believe what is clearly right in front of you.” The coarse human features seemed caught in a mixture of amusement and disapproval. He found both disgustingly patronizing. 

“What is before me is a joke! And whoever is behind this will feel the full force of the Dominion’s displeasure for their heresy! I demand to be released from whatever trap or illusion this is before I truly start to lose my temper.”

The towering man actually laughed, and Ondolemar had snarled before he’d even meant to. “I am sorry, I assure you I did not mean any offense, my proud Altmer. But I assure you that this is no trick or illusion. You died in Skyrim, in the cold halls beneath the echoes of the dwemer. This is a very different plane, a place between, of proving. You may be here for some time.”

The Aldermeri’s mind locked on the idea of being trapped in here. How could this be the afterlife? This wretched crag… “What do you mean some time? And who are you to know? Tiber Septim is not a Divine!”

__________


	2. Chapter 2

The long suffering sigh from the massive man made the mer’s blood boil. “I am before you, right now, you know that right? It seems your pride is only overshadowed by your blindness. I am the Ninth Divine, Ondolemar. A man ascended into godhood, and unfortunately for you, your displeasure at the notion does not change that. Your loathing for man is admittedly disconcerting for the Divines, this hatred shared by all of the Thalmor. What, Ondolemar, are you so afraid of?”

Ondelmar’s reaction was instinctual and violent, the anger seething through a throat shredded by cold. “We fear nothing! The race of men are barbarians! Savages beating at the gates of civilization! The mer are a naturally superior population, highborn and blessed by the Eight true divines to lead men out of squalor and darkness!”

He would have expected that Talos’ face would be twisted by rage at such proclamations, but instead the man’s features reflected only a quiet sympathy. Somehow, seeing it only made the Thalmor more incensed. “I am saddened that you feel that way, Ondolemar. A smart mer like you should hold so much promise… but your heart is so twisted by needless hate. But as I said, this is a place of judging, and likely you will be here for a long time. You’ll need shelter soon, there is a camp nearby with good people who would give you shelter, help you. As the dead, you cannot die again, but you can wish that you could many times over.”

He curled his lip at the very idea of bedding down with a bunch of humans. As Talos turned and began to walk towards the camp Ondolemar stubbornly stood where he was. 

If a Divine could look troubled, Talos certainly did, his pale gaze turning back to the altmer standing proudly in the merciless white of a snow hostile to his golden flesh. Such tenuous armor that pride, and it would no nothing against the snow. 

A snarl, dark and inhuman rumbled in the endless blizzard of the distance. “There are beasts on this plane, things that would make the wilds of Tamriel look tame. You cannot presume to survive out here on your own. Your enchantments do not work any longer. Just follow me, you will meet them, and you can decide from there.”

Talos could see the seething of rage, fear and frustration in that proud form. But there the ninth Divine waited, with infinite patience. Defiance echoed in Ondolemar’s golden eyes, but a ravenous howl from the white quickened the altmer’s heart.

As much as he wanted to defy, the bitterness of the cold was too great, and without his enchantments to fortify him, his magicka was being eroded away by the effort of sustaining a spell to shield from the most biting cold.

The only heat in all of this wretched place burned in his stomach and in his cheeks as at last Ondolemar lifted his feet and began to follow. 

He didn’t understand how, but they seemed to be moving faster towards the woods than he had when he was walking on his own. Perhaps it was just in his mind, but he could have sworn he’d walked for hours before Talos’ arrival with little or no progress. Now, they were already well into the trees. His lips pursed as he began to wonder if he would ever have made any progress without the Divine’s help. The idea of such dependence made his blood grow even colder, and his increasingly tense gaze burned into the broad back of the once-man. 

The cover of trees offered a pleasant shelter from the wind, even if the darkness of their twisted bulk was disconcerting. But then, through the dark he could see a flickering of warm firelight and the sound of laughter. His sharp altmer ears picked up the tone, and his steps grew stiff as he recognized voices that could only belong to humans. Ondelmar’s gaze snapped accusingly to the Divine, but the man just smiled in that disgustingly serene manner as he gestured Ondolemar forward and the two of them started to walk into camp. 

They emerged into the little clearing, and seated around a roaring fire was a small group of humans. Ondolemar already felt a sneer contorting his face. 

“Good Eve brothers!” The Divine called in hearty tones. To which all the humans seemed to alight on the presence of the man, calling out their greetings with a boisterous cheer which made the altmer cringe as it assaulted his hearing. 

“Good to see you too, oh mighty Talos. You visit us so rarely,” a hearty Nord chuckled, exchanging an embrace with the Divine. It was clear that the group were very familiar with each other, which only left the mer feeling ever more uncomfortable. What was only worse was as the humans stood to gather around their new guests he felt a few of their gazes turning to him. The normally very upright mer wanted to snarl at them to stop looking at him, not liking at all the conspicuous weight of their too bold perusal. No subtly in this lot, but particularly the Nords. One of them, a towering man with strangely dark hair for the breed was looking at him hard. He knew they were looking at his superiorly bred features, and narrowed his gaze as he tilted his chin upward. 

“And just who have you brought with you, friend? Not your typical faire, but I’ll admit this one’s still rather pretty,” a Nord with ginger-colored hair dropped in. 

Heat suffused his cheeks as the mer’s eyes widened in utter outrage at such an insult. The Thalmor was speechless just long enough for Talos to take advantage of the silence for his introduction, “this is Ondolemar. I was hoping you might harbor him for a while. He will be spending some time here in the between lands and is in need of hospitality. Would you keep him?”

“Why of course, Talos. A friend of yours is a friend of ours.” 

Ondolemar had finally had enough of this, “I am no friend to Talos, and I do not care for the pejorative of ‘pretty.’ I am an officer of the Aldmeri Dominion, and I have no ‘need’ of the hospitality of mankind.”

He saw the dark haired Nord, the one who’d stared so hard at him, raise a brow and Ondolemar suddenly felt very self-conscious of the Thalmor robe stripped of its enchantments and weighed down by damp and snow, his golden features ruddy with cold. His magicka was keeping him from feeling the worst of it, but he beginning to get exhausted by the effort, and feared by the unpleasant sympathy in the other’s gaze that it showed. 

The loud one made a clumsy bow, “I apologize if being called pretty offends, but do you truly plan on staying out there in the cold on your own, elf? Your magic will not sustain you forever, and we have warm fire and spare furs.”

It chafed that the offer sounded appealing, that the tang of fear at being left alone in this harsh land made him feel sick. But he did not wish to give in so easily and stood up tall even with the radiating heat of the fire calling to him. “And what do you wish in exchange for this… generosity? I doubt you would do anything for some strange mer out of the goodness of your heart.”

The Nord held up his hands shaking his head in that saddened way, “Just because you would charge for helping someone in need does not mean that we would. The beasts and cold care little for the difference between man and mer. We are willing to offer everything you need, does anything else really matter... Ondolemar, was it?” 

A sharp nod confirmed the name, but nothing else was forthcoming as the elf stood arrow straight amidst all of the waiting humans. He hated this, hated it more than patrolling the wretched halls of Skyrim. To think that he could be brought so low…to even think of relying on…humans. But what alternative did he really have? He was stuck here for who knew how long, and there was no way he was going to make up shelter, gather food, and start a fire before dark. No, pragmatism would have to win out, even if it utterly humiliated him to bow to baser need. 

“Fine… I would accept your… hospitality,” Ondolemar’s voice was quiet, his gaze firmly averted. Divines, but he had sunk to a new low. He may have killed all the wretched Nords that had led his death, but it seemed the beasts had won in the end.


	3. Stubbornness can only sustain you so long...

“Well then, come in by the fire. There’s plenty of room, despite these trolls taking most of it up!” A wash of deep laughter and loud slaps on the back ensued as the men settled around the fire. It was no surprise Ondolemar was reluctant to join the festivities. He didn’t like this, and his anxiety only seemed to increase as he watched the unruly humans interacting around the fire. 

The elf was having second thoughts, and his gaze looked back for that damned false divine only to fine nothing but cold and trees. If he had been a more unclothe creature he would have sworn as his back stiffened at the abandonment. Humans laughed at his back, warm, comfortable, and it felt like it was mocking him. 

“He does that.”

Ondolemar spun around, magicka tingling in his fingers as he turned to see the rowdy ginger from before smiling at him. The justicar did not like being startled. “What in Oblivion are you talking about?”

“Talos, he does that. Disappears out of nowhere. You get used to it. Now come on, the fire’s roaring and you’ll only get cold out here.”

The altmer backed up, his glare darkening as the Nord stood far too close. It didn’t make sense, but all these men seemed to tower over him. He was not short, and altmer were there tallest of the elves, it made no sense that these men were of such unnatural size. Whatever it was, their proximity made him feel violent. “I’ll go where I please, human. And I’d thank you to keep proper distance.”

The Nord stepped back a ways, hands again raised. “Alright, alright. Just wanted to make sure you knew you were welcome.”

“Noted,” the altmer snarled before he noticed he was doing it. The Nord’s eyes widened, but he finally shrugged and sat down again. The loss of control was even more frustrating than the damn Nord, and he turned around again, taking several shaking breaths until they went steady again. His magic was burning, frustrated as he was when he looked out into the twisted trees and saw nothing he knew and everything he hated. 

Ondolemar stood there, staring out into the trees until his body ached and hands trembled with the effort of keeping warm by magic. There was something unnatural in this wind, draining him. He couldn’t sustain this any longer, not when even the effort of standing was taxing his last reserves. His gaze turned reluctantly back to the men settled around the fire, still full of banter. 

His steps towards the fire were slow, and the mer buried his hands into his robe to hide their shaking from exhaustion. The altmer sighed, seeing the only space left unoccupied between the hulking humans was next to quiet dark haired Nord that had looked at him so hard. Regardless, the mer stepped over the rough log and seated himself silently beside the brute. 

No one said anything, and that was as disturbing as it was comforting. He finally ended the spells, and the mer felt himself go lightheaded. Cold assaulted his senses, then heat, his head swam but a large arm grabbed his shoulder and held him steady. Ondolemar braced a cold hand on the log beneath him, closing his eyes tight as his heart fought to slow with the angry writhing of his suffering magicks. 

The warm rim of a mug pressed to his lips, and despite his protests, the warm liquid filled his mouth. He recognized the burn of alcohol and the taste of mead. Reluctantly he swallowed it down, feeling his head clear enough for him to knock the muscular arm supporting him away. As his eyes cleared it wasn’t his throat burning anymore, not with half a dozen human gazes staring upon him. 

All but collapsed with exhaustion in front of a group of humans… He did not think he had ever been more embarrassed in his life. 

“You’ll be alright.”

Ondolemar gripped the cup tight, and his golden eyes darted to the source of the rough whisper. The dark haired Nord. He was even bigger than all the others, but he was also the only one not looking at him. Frowning, the mer brought the cup back to his lips, forcibly ignoring the stilted return to conversation. The rough human brew made his lips curl with distaste, but the warmth was reluctantly welcome as it seeped into his core and comforted his aches.


	4. Chapter 4

It took time, but eventually the pain did fade, and his magicka began to calm. The heat of the fire was nice, but the cover of his robes left much to be desired. He considered lowering his hood to get more comfortable, but these humans already had enough reasons to gawk at him. Instead he just settled there, trying not to think about the large bodies settled so close to him.

In the warm halo of the fire the altmer didn’t even notice when he started to drift. 

He woke up, groaning as he rubbed his cheek against the soft furs under his head. Wherever he was it was much more comfortable than the awful stone beds in Markarth. It was only after he’d basked in the warmth for a while that Ondolemar began to question just how he arrived in the pile of soft pelts. 

When the strangeness of it finally sank in the altmer sat up straight, his gold eyes looking frantically about. He’d never walked to bed… how did he? Sweet Divines, one of the humans must have carried him. The justicar rubbed a hand frustratedly against his face, trying to steady his breath. At the very least he was still in his Thalmor robes and none of those disgusting Nords had the audacity to do something like…undress him. But it was little comfort when he thought about the indignity of his unconscious form being carted off by humans like a sack of wheat. 

Well, there was little he could do about it now. Even in his indignity the altmer was somewhat reluctant to leave the warm of the furs that had been piled upon him. Obviously the humans were not kidding about an extra store of pelts. It was comfortable, he could at least be honest about that, but Ondolemar was a justicar and he did not plan on lounging about in borrowed warmth of humans like some layabout. Not when there were people to confront about their general audacity to physically move him without his permission.

The strain of getting up made Ondolemar groan. He was definitely feeling better than he had last eve, but the strain of magical exhaustion had not fully left him. He didn’t think he had so exhausted himself since he was a young mer trying to prove himself to officers of the dominion. His magicka made his head throb, the pressure looming behind his eyes and burning within his muscles, lingering in old injuries and aches. He scoffed, one would have thought that at least death would alleviate such hurts, but then many of a justicar’s scars were not merely on corporeal flesh. 

Still, despite his pains the mer rose out of the bedroll. Making his way out of the tent the altmer tried to brace for the chill, unfortunately it was hard to truly prepare oneself for the likes of a cold like this. He hissed between his teeth as the arctic air scored him. Narrowing his gaze against the wind, though he was startled to find the breeze warm. It seemed one of the humans had actually gathered up enough initiative to start a fire, admittedly not something that he would have expected, especially considering the chorus of snores around him.

The justicar wasted no time in crossing the cold front over to the logs positioned all around the fire. The wave of heat was very much welcome, and Ondolemar gladly seated himself around the blaze, basking in the warmth across his front. What was even better was there didn’t seem to be a human in sight. This was fine for a while, until his back started getting cold, and Ondolemar started to shift in discomfort. 

A sudden weight on his shoulders startled him, just as the dead body of the biggest hare he’d ever seen dropped right in front of him. “Breakfast,” a rough voice rumbled. Ondolemar grabbed at the thing on his shoulders first, his brow wrinkling when he felt the soft fur and turned to see the retreating back of the dark haired Nord walking away. 

“Wait where…” the justicar started, but the man had already wandered off, leaving the mer blanketed and staring in confusion at the slaughtered animal at his feet. Ondolemar’s nose wrinkled a bit at his ‘breakfast’, one long finger coming out to probe at the dead beast. It wasn’t that the justicar hadn’t had to camp before out on campaigns, and they’d even needed to hunt for food on occasion, but he most certainly wasn’t accustomed to that food being provided by humans. 

His overarching suspicion made him look the offering over very closely. But if he was looking for some kind of tampering, he found himself disappointed. The hare had been gutted and skinned, all but ready to be slid on a spit to serve. But why would the human bring his first?


	5. Strange Fellows

A shambling step had Ondolemar looking up from the dubious offering, and the altmer frowned a bit more as the rowdy redhead from last night crawled out of his tent to collapse near him on a log. 

“Morning sunshine… ohhhh…fire,” the ginger menace groaned with great satisfaction. The Nord looked a good resurrection from being awake, so Ondolemar tried not to pay much mind to his rudeness. Instead he claimed for himself one of the spits over the fire and slid the ready hare onto the stick. Rotating the thing himself was rather tedious, but it was also somewhat soothing to have something to keep his mind upon. The magical backlash was not fully done with him this morning, but he was warm and as safe as one could be in a nest of ruffians. 

He must have lost track of time in his gazing while he turned the spit, as when he came back to himself his rabbit was nearly done and the incorrigible redhead was poking idly at the fire and quite plainly staring at him. Ondolemar did not like to think himself so easily riled, but he had simply no patience for gawkers. “Beg your pardon, is there some reason you see fit to stare blankly at me like some dim-witted horker?”

The redhead started a bit, almost like he was just as surprised by Ondolemar’s sudden regard as the mer had been by his staring. Though if it fazed him the discomfort was short-lived, as soon enough white teeth flashed at the altmer and the Nord smiled roguishly. “Perhaps I was just staring at your pretty face.”

Ondolemar’s narrowed gaze showed just how much he appreciated the human’s cheek. 

The Nord raised his hands up in surrender, “alright, alright. Though you are lovely, even if you’ve got the temper of a hagraven on a red moon. Just wondering how a mer like you got brought in by Talos. Believe it or not, we’re not just simple fools, it’s known enough that Aldmeri have no love of Nord gods.”

Well, it seemed the Nord was at least somewhat less dense than he thought. Wonders never cease. “I ask myself that every second I remain here in your dubious company.”

He watched the redhead raise a brow, he looked about to say something, but a rustling distracted them both and the words never came. Around the fire other humans were beginning to emerge from their tents. Ondolemar returned his attention to his rabbit, removing the meat from the fire before it burned. He could hear the humans seating themselves around him, and of course, like the other they were all presumptuously close. 

Another thing he had found grating during his time in Skyrim had been the local Nord’s utter disregard for the concepts of personal space. They thought nothing of seating themselves right beside him without so much as a by your leave. Still, it seemed he’d have to suffer through it, at least for now.

Observing as he picked at the crisped skin on his roast he noted that not all of the little group of humans were Nords. He saw a Breton, and even an Imperial. Though all of them seemed to have well embraced the wild; clad in their crude furs and shoddily-crafted leather. Obviously there was no seamstress amoung them. Every soldier of the Thalmor was at least taught basic sewing skills to maintain their uniform, as each was expected to represent the Dominion respectably at all times. Poor conditions were no excuse for looking shabby. It seemed such fastidiousness was a purely mer sensibility. 

He almost wanted to laugh at the simplicity of their homemade clothes. The humans around him were chatting over the fire, too consumed in their chatter over base nonsense to pay him any mind. The realization that he was faintly comfortable caused an abrupt feeling of disquiet. Was he really so complacent to be taking breakfast with strange humans…? Humans, who he suddenly realized, he did not even know the names of.

“Who…are all of you?”

“Deigning to address us are you, majesty?” laughed a hearty Breton woman. 

“Careful, careful, don’t get his back up. You know how fussy purebreds can be.”

Ondolemar did not care to be spoken of as if he wasn’t there, and his gold gaze showed it. But before he could voice his displeasure the redhead that seemed constantly to plague him raised his hands. “That’s enough lads, and Gemma. Our guest here was polite enough to ask, seems only fitting that you louts answer, especially as it seems he’s going to be staying with us for a while.”

The female rolled her eyes, sitting back on her log, “you first Red, after all you already told him my name.”

This actually seemed enough to make the brute color a bit, not that Ondolemar was amused by any other their antics. He was still displeased with the disrespectful way the woman had addressed him, and the general lack of decorum from the lot of them. 

“I am Fjolfr,” the ginger Nord finally sputtered amidst good natured glares at the woman.

“Runar!” a blonde Nord shouted with flourish.

“Leifnar!” another darker blonde Nord howled back, like he was in a contest with the other to break the Altmer’s eardrums first. 

“I would be Caius,” the Imperial introduced with a tired, yet indulgent nod.

At least the Imperial seemed polite, by human standards. The courtesy warranted acknowledgement on Ondolemar’s part, and he nodded stiffly to the other man. A loud thump sounded from behind them. The altmer started, turning in displeasure, only to see the dark haired Nord returned with several rabbits bound to a stick. The others greeted him with typical boisterousness, already jockeying for the fattest hare in the bunch. 

All this the justicar watched while picking at his own meal. It seemed whatever wildlife populated this unfortunate wrung of oblivion was all of unnatural proportions. And the beasts hanging from the pole still had their coats on, and the hides looked…wrong. Dark, bristled and dangerous. It made him do a double take on his own meal, the largest of the beasts, but it looked still like it had to be some sort of hare. It was worrying, but the humans didn’t seem bothered by the unusual appearance at all, just skinning the beasts and stationing their spits over the fire. 

The troupe settled down a bit when they all managed to get their meals situated. Though the dark haired Nord waited patiently for the others before setting up his breakfast. 

“And that solemn sop would be Valund,” the ginger Nord interjected, gesturing to the silent brunette. 

Ondolemar narrowed his gaze disapprovingly at the man. He didn’t like being interrupted in his contemplations or those that acted overly familiar with him, and in general just didn’t like Fjolfr. Still, at least he knew all of his unfortunate acquaintances names now. 

There was some sort of beverage on the fire now as well. The humans were helping themselves, talking amiably amoungst themselves again, their unwilling guest seemingly forgotten. He didn’t know why, but watching them so comfortable, content in this wretched landscape made him feel inexplicably incensed. He looked down at the now barren roast hare, and seeing that he’d managed to eat the whole of the massive thing made him feel even more displeased. Those humans were all comfortable and here he was eating their food, and too much of it, a soldier of the Dominion unpardonably idle. Ondolemar didn’t know what time it was, but he was sure it was nor early enough that he would not usually have accomplished several tasks by now. 

Horrified at his own unpardonable sloth, the altmer stood up from the log, taking the fur off when he realized he still had it wrapped about his shoulders. The cruel influx of cold was almost immediate, and briefly took his breath away. Without pause his body was reminded of the throbbing in his head and the ache deep in his bones from the overexertion of his magicka. Ondolemar spread his feet a little just to keep his balance, but by sheer strength of will and no small amount of pride the justicar forced himself to walk away from the fire and explore the camp. 

It wasn’t large, but grudgingly he admitted that it at least had the essentials. Even if there was nothing of fine craftsmanship to be seen. This lot was clearly of warriors, not artisans. Walking around the camp his eyes also noted where the humans kept their spare weapons. He was sure that more were stashed somewhere in the tents, but one could note a few others lying about. Most were steel and heavier than he would like, though they would do if the Thalmor needed to call upon them. He of course preferred his magics, but in his current state he’d sooner blackout than fell one of them, particularly with the queer note of this pervasive cold. 

He couldn’t explain it, but the wind felt oddly…draining. More so than the natural sort of frozen misery common to Skyrim. The mer just didn’t know what to make of it. He stared out into the twisted treeline, and started as a dark howl sounded far too close for his comfort. 

“You don’t want to go out there.” 

Ondolemar’s head whipped around at the voice, finding the over-familiar Fjolfr grinning at him. “I will go where I please,” the justicar stated coldly, finding the amusement in the other’s tone unpardonably patronizing. He was not a child to be herded away from anything. And most certainly not by a human. 

“Just saying, there are beasts out there that’d find a good meal in a pretty thing like you.”

“I beg your pardon?! I am a justicar of the Aldmeri Dominion, I assure you that I can more than defend myself.”

Fjolf leaned one stocky hip against a post, tearing a bit of meat off of his roast. “Oh? With all your fancy magics tired, weaponless, you can fight beasts bigger than you? With nothing but that silky altmer nightgown as armor? That I’d like to see.”

Ondolemar felt his cheeks flood with color even as his eyes narrow in reflexive anger at the humiliation. He couldn’t even think of anything to say he was so furious, even more so because the damned human was right. “So I am supposed to stay cooped up in here? Your tame mer tied to this damn camp!”


	6. Chapter 6

For the first time since he’d gotten here there was less humor in the redhead’s eyes, but what he saw was infinitely worse: pity. “You just collapsed last night. You’re tired, there’s nothing wrong with having a rest. Nothing will happen to you here and we are trying to be accommodating. Just come back to the fire, honestly I can see you shaking from here and I don’t think you want to be carried again because you fainted by sheer stubbornness.”

How…how dare that…human. The justicar’s gold gaze burned at the other’s insolence. In the Dominion he would have had this miscreant whipped. He would have put him on display so every man and mer knew just what happened when someone dared to mock a justicar.

But he wasn’t in the Dominion, or Summerset Isle, or even Tamriel. He was in this skeever-hole of an afterlife, trapped with a bunch of damn humans. The frustrating reality of his own total impotence had the altmer clenching his shaking hands in the loose folds of his robes. He hated this place, everything about it. From the punishing cold to the wretched beasts and men. But most of all he hated Talos, that filthy Nord imposter for putting him here. He couldn’t think of a daedra’s plane of Oblivion that could be more terrible than this.

Death, it seemed, was infinitely crueler than life.

“Fjolf.” 

Ondolemar and the Nord in question both turned at the quiet call. By the fire the dark haired human, Valund, had his level gaze on the redhead and turned his head to gesture him back. Fjolf’s gaze flickered to Ondolemar briefly, but after a drawn out sigh he stepped forward to join Valund at the fire.

Ondolemar watched the two carefully and he refused to be grateful for them calling back their dog. His gaze turning back to the white and the wild, the mer’s lips tightened grimly at the throbbing in his head.

Nothing was said as the altmer returned to camp, but the way no gazes turned to him said plenty. The day had barely begun and the justicar was already plenty tired. He didn’t engage any of them, and thankfully no one bothered him after Fjolf, it was more mercy than the Thalmor would have expected. After reluctantly taking a cup of the hot drink over the fire for himself Ondolemar was left alone with his thoughts.   
__________

Ondolemar was restless. A week had passed of him healing and he hated every moment. He had forgotten how frustrating it was to recover from magical fatigue; one of the few ailments that couldn’t be aided with Restoration magic. Instead he healed human slow, weak in the midst of his enemies

Yet this morning, something was different. The throbbing that had lingered in the back of his head was finally gone. Tentative at first, Ondolemar tested it by summoning a lick of flame between his thin fingers. Like the crack of a whip his magic leapt, energy soaring in his chest as fire embraced the fine digits like a lover. A tension he hadn’t even realized he had been holding eased in his shoulders. Unfortunately all that left with was the restlessness. 

Heedless of the punishing cold the justicar rose up from the furs. It chafed his pride, but as the icy wind hit him he found himself reaching down to wrap one of the furs about his shoulders. Ondolemar was still wearing the justicar robes that he had when he’d first arrived at this wretched place, and unfortunately the robes of Thalmor wizards were not designed for insulation. Of course the humans had left a pile of their crude garments near his tent in a shamefully unsubtle hint, but he was not about to lower himself that far quite yet. 

Glancing about the camp, for once seemingly quiet as the humans all appeared occupied in their various tasks. Good, he’d had about enough of being cloistered inside the camp like a child, shooed away from the outskirts. It was just cold and miserable as he remembered, but he could not stay cooped up with these humans any longer. 

Setting his gaze towards the twisted trees in the distance, the justicar started to trudge doggedly forward. It was as good a place as any to start his exploration.


	7. Chapter 7

Unlike when he had first become stranded here, Ondolemar seemed to be making some progress as he trekked into the strange landscape, and soon enough he found himself under the dubious shade of corrupt greenery. His sharp mer ears could hear the chirps and scrabbling of small, crawling things unseen amidst the mangy brush. He was listening for water, some sign of a real landmark besides endless snow and wood. At least a river was likely to lead to some form of civilization, hopefully mer. Even an orc stronghold would be welcome.

He didn’t know how long he walked in the dark, frozen foliage of skeletal trees. All this white and black was disorienting, and when he looked to see a too familiar tree the mer paused, brow furrowing. Pressing his hand against the shredded bark, he felt his echoes in its essence. 

So absorbed was he in the task that he didn’t notice the eerie quiet until a chill rolled down his spine. The justicar went still, listening intently as an inexplicable foreboding seeped through his skin. There was something very wrong in the life here, and Ondolemar abruptly pulled his magic back into himself.

No warning preceded the thunderous roar that shook the wretched boughs that loomed above him. It sounded like no beast that Ondolemar knew, its call too terrible and too close for the mer’s comfort. He rallied his magics, scanning the harsh landscape for any sign of the creature. For a long time it was still, and then the ground began to quake with the thunder of great feet. Ondolemar pushed his magic into his hands, the aching burn of destruction wrapping around his fingers as his heart leapt to his throat.

He’d stood against the barbarian hordes of Skyrim’s savage Nords, even unto his own death… but for some reason Ondolemar found himself more uneasy staring into the unnatural shade within the endless white than he had ever been before. Thought when the creature came into sight he began to understand why. The beast that charged out of the twisted forest put the horrors of Tamriel to shame. Teeth and claws white as the terrible winter around them glinted from a grotesque black body stories high, stretched in a ground eating lope as it barreled towards him.

It was only harsh Aldmeri training that stopped Ondolemar from simply gaping at the beast dragged straight from nightmare. The justicar hurled a fireball at the beast.

The creature didn’t even pause its steps. His blood went cold and the altmer hurled lighting, then spears of ice as long as himself. All of these attacks the creature just shook free of its dense coat, its drooling maw taunting him as his spine tingled with the cool sweat of desperation.

This couldn’t be… he tossed spells stronger still. Dark things; magicks spoken scarcely of beyond the realms of Oblivion. Stygian flames that should cling like acid, illusions that should fool even the brightest wizard, conjures to rip subject from soul. It was only the growing fear of the maw before him that kept the justicar going as the pain of casting such destructive spells ate at him, burning through his fingers as they channeled all they could from his frantic reserves.

But nothing, nothing was working. Ondolemar started stepping back, legs trembling with the urge to run even in futility. Talos has said he couldn’t die again, but then he’d also said there were fates much worse than death. His heart beat its staccato rhythm and he forced all he could into his magic as his vision filled with cavernous jaws.

Ondolemar braced for the pain when a massive weight knocked into him. The justicar had thought to be driven to the snow by a beast of claws, fur and teeth, but instead a distinctly different body knocked him down, a hiss of indrawn breath sounding against his ear.

The dark haired Nord from the camp rose off him, blade flashing as he carved into the hide of the great beast. It roared and the man seemed to match its snarl, parrying the monster’s claws with steel. Ondolemar looked up, stunned at the spectacle. Where had he come from? He was sure none of those savage had followed him from camp… but here he was.

He couldn’t believe it, but the dumb brute actually seemed to be driving the creature back. A beast that had defied the magic of a justicar could simply not fall to base steel. And yet, with every slash and stab the Nord took a step forward, the snow stained crimson with blood.


	8. Chapter 8

Tired of being spectator on the battle, Ondolemar thought to use the distraction to launch another spell at the beast. Destruction magic crackled through his bones, a burning in him as once again he directed it towards the beast. But like before that coal black coat shook it off like nothing, only sparing him a token snarl before launching itself back in force against the Nord. When the creature leapt Valund braced against it. It moved like something terrible, something possessed.

The wretched growl resonated even in his bones, and it made the justicar’s hand flex reflexively at where his daggers used to be. The realization of their absence only served to underline his helplessness in this wretched world. All Ondolemar could do was swear and watch the mess that the situation had become. 

It felt like the fight took forever standing on the sidelines, though in truth it wasn’t long before the beast was laid out on the ground. The terribly thing’s immense corpse cast them both in shadow, the only sound left behind the Nord’s heavy breathing as his hands clutched white on the grip of the sword. 

“You alright?” 

Ondolemar actually started at the sound of the gruff voice in the silence. Was he alright? He had just been attacked by some godsforsaken beast that had proven immune to his magicks. If the Nord hadn’t arrived it would have shredded his flesh, cracked his bones… he was the epitome of not all right. 

The justicar swallowed thrice to banish the trembling from his voice in a way couldn’t with the shaking in his hands. Knowledge of what had almost happened, what he’d narrowly missed had his heart throbbing double time still quaking with the memory of terror. Even dead on the ground the massive bulk of the creature looked wrong, so vivid in its evil that the Thalmor could scarcely look upon it. And to be alive for its savaging… unable to die. 

“This plane is even more wretched than I had imagined.” Even whispered it sounded like a shout in this silence.

The Nord breathed out in relief, but it was wet and grim in a way that called the justicar’s attention. Against his will he found himself inspecting the human, lips thinning when he saw blood slipping between rough fingers clutching at the Nord’s belly. 

So, he had not emerged unscathed at all. Ondolemar probably should have been more relieved that these humans showed some sign of weakness, some vulnerability… but for some reason it didn’t comfort him at all. 

Ondolemar stepped closer, frowning as noted the darkness of the blood staining the hand pressed against the Nord’s side. That didn’t look good, not good at all. Merciless Aldmeri training exercises brought his first thoughts to trying to stabilize the wound, but a spike of dizzying agony nearly felled him when he tried to summon his magicks again. Wonderful. The Oblivion beast had exhausted his reserves again. 

Frustration brought the altmer back to examining the human in full, and what he saw was not to his liking. The Nord was not going to be able to walk back unassisted and Ondolemar could hardly go back without the man. As bitter as it was to admit, the human had saved his life and honor would dictate that he didn’t leave his savior to bleed out in the forest like a lame cur. It unfortunately left him little choice but to help the man. And so it was with a sigh of deep sufferance that the justicar Ondolemar slipped his shoulder underneath a human’s as they made their way back through the baleful trees.

The walk back to camp seemed even longer and more thankless than the departure, though that could have been due to the weight of shouldering the walking wounded. He had never thought he’d be pleased to see a fire with humans all around it, but for once he was glad when the assembled men caught sight of them and eagerly took the injured Nord from his hands. 

“By the Nine! What happened?” came the Breton’s worried voice, not that be blamed her. The walk had shaken some of the shock from him, but Ondolemar still wasn’t feeling completely himself as he watched the humans bustle around Valund. 

“I thought I heard… it wasn’t—”

“It was,” came the faint groan, the dark haired Nord hissing with discomfort as the moved to lay him down in one of the larger tents. Though a part of him wanted to just sit and wait for his nerves to settle, the mer felt obligated to follow them as they laid the injured Nord down and started to strip him of some the furs that obstructed their view of the wounds he had received in Ondolemar’s defense. 

If anything the gash looked worse bare to the world. The clothing had hidden the shallower cuts running parallel, the ragged trademark of claws. Other bruises and abrasions riddled him, and Ondolemar felt an unwelcome pang of discomfort looking at the abuse. Though the man seemed a beast himself he was still human and nothing could have made the fact more plain.

Someone had gone to fetch water and soon the Breton was dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth, cleaning some of the ugly blood away. Gone were the jovial tones of earlier as the whole camp loomed over their fallen comrade on the bed. There was an officious manner about the way that the Gemma inspected the wounds, and it relieved the justicar that at least one of them had some medical training. 

A soft golden light began to fill the Breton’s hands and Ondolemar almost swore aloud in his relief. Finally someone was going to do something sensible. 

Just as that light was moving towards Valund the Nord put his hand up and all of a sudden the magic dissipated completely. The justicar couldn’t have been more shocked if they’d slapped him. Why would she stop? This was just dangerous, reckless. One does not just... refuse to be healed. It was lunacy. Particularly not with wounds such as these. The thalmor would be the first person to scold wasting energy on a scraped knee and a runny nose, but this was an issue of life or death, not something to leave to the fickle whims of nature. These humans were even more backwards than he’d thought. 

He turned an accusing gaze at the Breton, who seemed to look helplessly down at her exhausted charge.

“No magic,” Valund irrationally insisted. 

The sheer stupidity of the situation shook the altmer from some of his stupor. Damned humans, no mer would turn down a mage’s Restoration. Superstitious barbarians. “This is unacceptable! I don’t know if you’re expecting your heathen god to save him, but he needs healing immediately.” He did not drag this human all the way from the forest to have him perish in camp because these men were ignorant. His magic was exhausted but Ondolemar still tried to gather up some tingle of Restoration magic. 

Healing magic was usually warm and pleasurable, but what was left to drag up tore and ached, but damn if he was going to deal with this. He was just reaching out when a rough hand startled him and knocked his hands away. 

“He told you no.” Ondolemar glared at Fjolf. 

“Well he is a fool. Are you honestly going to let him kill himself like this?” His ancestors would roll in their graves to see him defending the life of a human, but this was just incomprehensible.

The altmer was seething at the idiocy of humans, and it was only the rough voice of the felled Nord distracted him from his oncoming rage. “No, Ondolemar. Magic won’t just fix everything. You have to learn the consequences of your actions. How better than by minding me and seeing to the damage you’re responsible for?”

He didn’t know what was more insulting, that the human was trying to get him over a barrel, or that he thought Ondolemar would cede to this nonsense. “I am not going to play nurse because you just want to be difficult!” Well it these humans thought they had one up on him they were wrong. Bracing himself the justicar moved to reach forward only to have a harsh human hand jerk him back once again. 

The altmer turned bared his teeth to swear at someone only to have his gaze met by the burning blue of a blonde Nord. “That’s enough. Now you’re no careless boy to be taken over a knee to learn a lesson, but a grown mer. So you’ll tend the damage you’ve done, and that’s the end of it. But if you try that again I swear I will tan your behind, grown or no. Valund wants you to tend it, so you will.”

Ondolemar opened his mouth to protest at this outrage, only to find the eyes of all the camp gazing sternly upon him. This…this was madness. He had known these humans for barbarians, but never would even he have suspected such savagery. But what more could one expect from followers of Talos? Fools, the lot of them. Worse yet, they expected him to be complicit in their backwards ways and to care for their comrade for weeks, possibly even months, Divines forbid. He couldn’t take this. 

“You are fools and beasts, and I wash my hands of this,” the altmer declared as he threw the rag he had been clutching to the floor and let the aching magic dissipate while he stomped right out of the tent. 

The canvas flap raised and Ondolemar was ready to verbally flense his pursuer before a gruff voice seemed to call the intruding arm inside and the outlet for his rage was thwarted. Grabbing onto the nearest thing he could, the justicar threw it into the fire. Watching what looked to be a crude satchel crackle and burn was not nearly as satisfying as it was supposed to be. 

If his magicks weren’t pathetically drained he could have conjured a firestorm and burned the whole of this wretched place to the ground. Idly he fanaticized about it as he gazed into the fire, imagined the shock on their ill-bred human features, stunned that the ‘pretty’ altmer had been their demise. Of course it was an exercise in futility even dreaming of it. He couldn’t survive on his own here. In this plain he was weak… dependant… and the very thought turned his stomach. The justicar that he once was would never have suffered their indignities, would have made them pay for their threats instead of sulking in his humiliation. 

But unfortunately no disappointment in himself could make his body ignore the abraded suffering that followed magical exhaustion, nor did his heart forget the bracing terror in the wild. 

He didn’t know how long he sat out there in frustrating impotence, looking into the blaze, though it must have been a while because the altmer didn’t even notice the encroaching human until he was seated right beside him. A hint of red hair danced in his peripheral vision and he found himself feeling wearier by the moment.

“I apologize for all that. Leifnar gets overzealous, but that was uncalled for--” 

Ondolemar dreamed of strangling the man to silence. Unfortunately in his circumstances remaining silent would have to suffice as an expression of his displeasure. Fjolf, in a typically oblivious manner did not seem fazed by the lack of response. 

“--regardless, I want you to know that we are serious, and we do intend to respect Valund’s wishes.”

The stubborn, ignorant ways of humans would never cease to amaze him. “You honestly think that I am going to agree to this madness?”

Fjolf’s gaze was uncharacteristically serious as he reached over to still the altmer’s restless prodding at the flame. Instinctively it had the mer pulling away, a dark sneer sharpening his already harsh gold features as he readied himself escalate his displeasure as necessary. He would suffer much, but he would not have them touching him. The Nord just laughed in a rueful way. “Despite your attempts to prove otherwise, I do think you can be reasonable, Ondolemar. If we’re honest here, you don’t have much of a choice. If there was anything that walk into the forest proved, it’s that you can’t survive these wilds on your own. You need our help, which we’re only too happy to provide, but there are some conditions. It hardly seems much to ask that you at least be respectful. Valund was hurt saving you. Now he wants you to help heal him. Why he refuses magick is his own business, but until he’s up and running again you’ll be responsible for him. In return you get our hospitality, which I hardly think is a poor deal.”

What was most galling about all of it was that the human insisted on making it sound reasonable. As if there was anything reasonable about refusing healing magic and blackmailing a thalmor justicar into playing nurse for a human. It was ridiculous and humiliating. Unfortunately, it was also the only option he had. 

Ondolemar didn’t say anything, but for once the human didn’t seem drawn to press, for which he found himself embarrassingly thankful.

“I’ll give you some time here to settle. Valund’s resting at the moment, and I don’t doubt after a fright like that you’ll want some time. When you’re up to it Gemma will brief you on the state of your new charge.” With that the Nord turned and left him alone, wandered off to do whatever it is that humans do. 

In the meantime Ondolemar had time to consider when his life had gone so horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those that care By the Nine! is now on my shiny new Wattpad account: http://www.wattpad.com/story/11949979-by-the-nine-skyrim-fanfic


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn’t until he was sitting there; deflated after the unexpected encounter in the woods that he realizes how much his body _hurts._ His hands ache inside like the bones are blistered and the mage swears as he flexes them idly. He shouldn’t be surprised; Destruction always ached, even after years with it there were still the familiar pains. Usually it was a good sort of pain, affirming, but overexpendature had its reprisals. Still, it was familiar and the altmer savored it briefly, allowing it to distract him from the current state of affairs.

The justicar would rather not have admitted just how long he sat out there contemplating the inevitable. Ondolemar was a wise enough mer to know that he would have to cede eventually, but that did not necessarily make it easy. He decided to get up to go into the tent before proper reluctance began to appear as shameful cowardice.

Rising up from the bench before he changed his mind, Ondolemar stepped away from the central fire to go to the quiet tent he had left earlier in frustration. Looking about there was a conspicuous absence of loathsome human company, but the justicar was not about to question the blessing, and instead steeled himself for the unpleasantness to come. 

Lifting the tent flap the mer was actually shocked to be met with a warm gust of air. Someone had made a small fire inside the tent which brought the climate to nearly hospitable levels, a state he’d never imagined this wretched crag could hope for.

Of course that was the end of his mercies, as he forced his gaze to the other occupants of the tent. The strong scent of herbs brought his gaze to where the Breton sat at the Nord’s bedside, a small bowl of paste between her palms.

“Ah, Ondolemar, there you are. Please, feel free to take a seat. Valund is asleep.”

With some trepidation the mer sat on stool near the cot in which his… patient lay. Though humans were generally rough hewn creatures, looking half wild by their very nature, Onolemar could admit that the man was looking worse for the wear. The woman had cleaned out the wounds and wrapped them up, but that didn’t do much to conceal the angry red swelling and the dark menagerie of bruises coloring the crude bronze of the man’s flesh. The human was an idiot to reject healing. Who could know what was on the claws of that nightmare? Those wounds could be going septic without proper spells of purification, but no, he’d rather rely on some hagraven’s brew and strong arm an Aldmeri to help.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, you know. Valund’s a hearty one, he’ll pull through.” Gemma’s voice was soft as she looked at him and Ondolemar found her sympathy insulting. Did she honestly think he was worried after a human? If honor and the unfortunate hospitality of these vagabonds didn’t demand it, he would not have wasted a moment on Nord life.

The mer’s tone was at its coldest as he leveled his gaze at her. “If he doesn’t it’s no one’s fault but his own.”

He expected outrage, anger at his callousness, but of course the human just smiled and looked sad. As if he’d disappointed her. Well, if she thought he gave a daedra’s damn about the opinions of savages and fools she was even more misguided than he took her for.

“Regardless, you’ll be glad to know there’s not a lot for you to do. Mostly you’ll need to change his bandages, press some of this salve into them. He’ll need bathing on occasion, but we can take turns bringing him food if you like. Since you don’t necessarily have an established place we thought you could stay in here to look after him. More room, and there’s a small fire pit. Considering your constitution, I thought you’d be grateful of the extra heat.”

Ondolemar didn’t dignify the last with a response, and simply nodded his grudging assent at the rest. There was a pallet covered with furs settled in the corner that he assumed to be his new lodgings. Not necessarily opulent, but again better than Markarth, not that it was saying much.

Fortunately, the female seemed to take the hint at his silence and pressed no further with her insipid conversation. He knew his duty, which was all that was necessary at this point. Ondolemar was not here by choice and he refused to be amiable to his situation. 

Though after the woman left and Ondolemar found himself alone, looking at the brute of a human, he had the irrepressible desire to seethe. They had well and truly trapped him. It was not enough that he should suffer their company, but now they stuck him with caring for the welfare of one of their own. Did they really think him so neutered as to be safe to leave their comrade to? He huffed out a humorless laugh. It would serve them right if Ondolemar smothered the dog in his sleep. But of course, the cursed truth of it was that honor would not allow him to just leave the brute to die, no matter how unpleasant he found the situation. 

He doubted his predecessors had suffering human ignorance in mind when they spoke of honor. Oh how they would lament to see one of their own brought so low. Amidst his contemplations a wet, wretched cough came from the bed and the altmer narrowed his gaze at the source of his misfortune.

Ondolemar refused to feel responsible. He may have no cause to sabotage the man, but any suffering or complications he bore by refusing sensible aide were purely the fault of stubbornness. It was he who was wronged and he had to foster that mindset. He could not let the lunacy of humans find purchase in the fertile ground of misappropriated guilt. To that end Ondolemar deliberately ignored the injured brute and further examined his dubious new appointment. 

The tent was not much to behold, but the presence of a fire was a marked improvement. As reluctant as he was to admit weakness, it was impossible to deny that Ondolemar was ill suited to the cold, and more than his temper suffered under its weight. There was an ample bed of furs packed in the corner, which frankly looked nearly decadent juxtaposed against the harsh earth and tyrannous cold. He was not to proud a mer to admit that it looked tempting, particularly after the day’s events. 

And truly, what were his alternatives? Sitting in stony silence with boisterous humans who all but mocked him openly with their smug stares? He bet they were pleased to have bested him, cowed the haughty altmer to their bidding. Divines, it burned him! It was a terrible effort that kept him from casting his gaze again to the prone form so repulsively near to him.

No, he needed time to shore up his reserves, refocus. It was clear the confrontation had rattled him, along with the sheer willful ignorance of his dubious ‘hosts.’ Despite his circumstances he was no wild thing. Ondolemar was a justicar and both reasoning and enlightened enough not to let himself be so thoroughly lost. It was easy to forget what he stood for stranded out here without the usual pillars of civilization, removed from the support of similar kind.

This… trial, farce, mockery, whatever it was did not seem to possess a clear end date. Talos, or whomever he was, had practically stated as much. And if there was anything his venturing had proven it was that there was something deeply unnatural about the surroundings here. The beasts had all been massive, and much more disconcertingly, they also appeared to be immune to his magicks. Even the humans were of immense size and seemed to match each of his disadvantages with virtues that made them infinitely better suited to the landscape than he. Wherever he was, it clearly wanted to break him. He could not let that happen. He would not. 

For now the best thing he could do was rest. The wilds had won this round. His body ached from stress, reminding him of his desperate expenditures not hours before. Destruction magic was not kind, and darker schools chastised much more cruelly. He needed the break, and if the humans kept to their normal schedule dinner was still a ways off. One would think in such uncertainly Ondolemar would have trouble sleeping, but almost as soon as he’d settled in the plush furs he was gone. 

The altmer woke to the sound of rustling, his body jolting at the sound while his mind was still trapped in a vision of merciless white fangs and fur like knives at midnight. It took too many long moments, his heart beating like mad before the glare of the fire faded and his sensitive eyes could focus on the Breton woman tending to the Nord. She seemed utterly oblivious to his alarm, for which he was torn between relief and resentment at her negligence. It probably was a blessing; he hardly needed to compound their ridicule with cowardice.

Gemma seemed totally rapt in dampening the injured Nord’s brow, and only after she’d examined him to her satisfaction did she face Ondolemar. “I suppose you haven’t checked on him since I left?” the hint of exasperation was readily evident in her tone, which Ondolemar matched with a look of belligerence fitting the distaste he felt at her presumption.

“We both know you do not want to be here, Ondolemar. That’s perfectly clear, but you are still expected to look after Valund. No one expects you to fuss like a hen with one chick, but you cannot just ignore the task. His health is in your hands, and there can be real consequences to neglect. Valund is strong, but he is still just a man.”

And there was Ondolemar’s very problem with him. He was a man. A foolish, prideful beast that was trying to make an altmer look after him. “This is his fault.”

Gemma’s jaw went tight for a moment, and Ondolemar’s heart beat with relish. He wanted her to snap, swear, fight with him, and show just one ounce of the frustration that he himself had been subject to these long days in Oblivion. But once again the human race sought to deny him, and forcefully the Breton pushed down her upset, just sighing before she threw the damp rag back in her bowl. “Be that as it may, he is your charge now. Dinner is ready. You can eat with us, or take it back to your tent; though if you do I ask you bring Valund his share as well. It’s his kill after all.”

The last actually had Ondolemar thrown, but before he could question her further Gemma had left, the tent flap swinging behind her. Despite the disquieting nature of her implications, the promise of sustenance lured him out of the confines of his tent. 

Only constant exposure to the human’s raucous antics allowed him to discern that the group was somewhat more subdued in their comrade’s absence. Ondolemar did not care to address any of them, but he still felt the weight of their gazes perusing him. The justicar had stood before more hostile audiences, and had no problem keeping his chin high as he approached the fire pit. But of course none appeared outwardly angry with him, and perhaps that disregard stung more than most. If one of his officers had exposed another to such risk he’d have berated them viciously, and they’d be lucky to walk straight after such a reaming. Yet the humans continued to be insufferably charitable, looking more sympathetic than angry. He hated them.

“This is yours, and this is for Valund.” Lost in his resentment, Ondolemar found his hands suddenly full of food, Fjolf smiling in his face. “Unless of course you planning to stay for my stunning company?”

“I’d rather dine with a daedra.”

Fjolf actually seemed startled by his own laugh, as if he wasn’t actually amused until just now. “I’m not sure how I should take that… though I suppose I’ve met a dremora or two that had a certain charm about them…”

Ondolemar spared not a moment more for Fjolf’s annoying perversions, and took his leave with the dishes, chased by the sound of yet more riotous laughter as the jest continued.

This tent flap did not banish the sound of human merriment, but at least it muffled it. It was dimmer inside the tent with the fire burning low, so much so that he didn’t immediately notice the silent regard of his now conscious charge. 

The mer had placed the meals down on a low table and was adding wood to the small blaze before he noticed Valund was awake. The altmer went abruptly still at the staring, not immediately sure what to say. Ondolemar was still weighed heavy with anger over his lowly position as nursemaid, and he had not forgotten who had placed him in this mess. Yet still his thoughts were invaded with the acrid taint of concern, his own cautious attentions lingering over the careful manner in which the human made his subtle movements.

“Is that for me?” The voice was low and rough, jarring in the quiet between them. Even the register of that voice was un-mer, too coarse and alien as it reached out.

He felt a fool for how long he searched at first for the human’s meaning, his mind only making the connection as he saw again the food resting beside them. “Yes, one portion.”

Valund’s eyes brightened as if he wanted to laugh, but instead nodded solemnly. “I presumed so,” the human started to rise a bit higher, but cut the motion off with a sharp hiss. “Damn. Could you get something to raise me up a bit?”

Ondolemar might have been more reluctant if the Nord hadn’t looked like he was so clearly in pain. Against his conscious will he soon found himself grabbing a plush fur and rolling it to be stuffed beneath Valund’s head and shoulders. Examining his handiwork and the miserable state of the dark haired human it became unpleasantly clear that it was not within Valund’s power to feed himself without exacerbating his injuries. Wonderful. The altmer was sorely tempted to fetch one of the others and demand they do it, but somehow he knew that they would insist he see to the chore. Eventually he was going to have to debase himself thusly, he supposed it was better he do it on his own terms.

It was clear which plate was intended to be for Valund, and Ondolemar was a bit insulted he hadn’t notice the obvious game earlier. All the meat and vegetables on his plate were cut carefully into bite-sized chunks and partitioned neatly on the plate, like it was meant for a child. The only mercy, if one could call it that, was the presence of utensils that Ondolemar could at least use to keep his fingers from his patient’s mouth. “I suppose I am to serve you, am I?”

Valund raised a brow, “I would help myself, but you may notice I am a bit indisposed at the moment.”

Hard to deny the point, even if Ondolemar resented it. He made sure that his sigh was adequately agitated as he carefully cut his own piece of meat from a separate plate and ate it carefully as he regarded the man. It was an oddly tough meat, and the flavor not something he could quite recognize. Spicy in an indefinable fashion. The altmer considered it as he chewed and swallowed, pointedly helping himself to a few more bites before he moved to feed the Nord any. He knew it was childish and petty, but there were few enough satisfactions out here that he was willing to enjoy the frustrated look on those broad features as Ondolemar deliberately made the man wait. 

Mead had been left in a pitcher nearby and he helped himself. He spent a lazy moment enjoying the burn of liquor and human displeasure before finally deigning to spear some meat with a fork and deposit it delicately between Valund’s teeth.

The Nord chewed it in a typically uncouth human manner, but unexpectedly did not move to snap at his indelicate treatment. If anything he seemed almost pleased, which didn’t sit well with the altmer at all and he made sure to deliver the next bite after an even more extended delay.

Ondoelmar had soon made rather a game of it. Sometimes feeding himself for a while, others giving Valund a bite, sometimes two, keeping the pattern as unpredictable as possible just to goad the man into frustration. It was no easy task, the Nord just did not seem near as easy to rile as his kin in Skyrim.

“Enjoying yourself?” 

Ondolemar was actually startled by the voice. He’d grown so used to the soft sound of chewing, and the silent battle of wills that he’d not been expecting to be actually addressed, or if he had, the mer would have anticipated it to be more hostile. “What?”

“We’re almost done with the meal. Do you think you might be tempted to taunt me with some water next? I find healing leaves me a bit parched.”

Looking down he saw little left but scraps of meat and bread. Ondolemar hadn’t even noticed the meal was almost done. And he definitely didn’t understand why his face suddenly felt so hot, the mer awkwardly rising from the little stool beside the cot to get the water and pour it into a nearby cup.

Without the game it all suddenly felt so strange, and Ondolemar dearly wished he could just throw the drink at the man and be done with it. Unfortunately, the Divines were as pitiless as ever, and Ondolemar had to return to the man’s bedside and inelegantly press the vessel against chapped human lips. The liquid sloshed, and Valund sputtered a bit, finally glaring at Ondolemar, but under the circumstances the altmer found himself hard pressed to enjoy it.

There was something deeply unsettling about feeling someone drink from his hand. He could feel the human’s throat working in the slight bob of the cup; see some of the color returning to drawn features as he was sated.

Ondolemar took back the cup as soon as it was emptied, unpleasantly thankful to just have the weirdness over.

“Thank you.”

His gaze snapped up to the dark of Valund’s eyes, unsure of what to say in response. There was a lazy intensity in the Nord’s response that had Ondolemar shifting uneasily. Whatever it was, it was not an interaction he wanted to encourage. He fed Valund the last bits before fastidiously attending to the dishware, trying to ignore the human he knew was still discourteously conscious.

It felt painfully long, but after an extended period of willful ignorance of his presence the human finally succumbed again to the lure of sleep. Never had he been gladder for the body’s tendency to hibernate when grievously injured. Ondolemar had quite enough of humans for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those that are still reading this, even with my extended delays. Know that I haven't given up, and yes eventually there will be smut.
> 
> Also, I've made a cover for those that ever need one: [Voila!](http://imgur.com/gypuFhe)


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